The Last Peony
by randomlvr1
Summary: Russia loves flowers, but flowers don't like the cold, they don't like him. Except for his most prized flower who doesn't mind Russia's cold hands - a most stunning blossom born from a seed of evil. A flower of evil.


Russia heaved a weary sigh as he dumped his latest failure at growing life into the trashcan. He'd have to take the trash out soon - it was overflowing with decomposing life, and the smell was starting to bother him. Death smelled about just the same away as it looked - ugly.

He took the nowempty pot and headed for the door that lead to his spacious backyard while humming without any real feeling. Except sadness. And loneliness. He was very lonely, especially since this plant had withered away under his watchful gaze. He thought he'd been so careful this time, too . . .

He reached the glass paned door to the yard and pushed at it with little results. Pouting, he put his weight forward and the door relented with a small squeak. The tall Russian looked down on the ground crunching under his booted feet - snow. The fluffy powder always seemed to get in the way, and Russia didn't appreciate it. In fact, what was the point of having such a large property if all that covered it was that slushy mess? He needed the sunshine and warmth to melt away the snow.

And even his little attempts at flora - his fragmented pieces of beauty - weren't safe from General Winter. Gasping in discontent, he bent down and inspected the few sturdy plants he kept outside with the cruel weather. They too were covered in snow. Little conifer saplings, only at home in the white seas on land, wilted with bent arms under the crushing weight of the snow.

They looked close to death, poor things.

He stood up carefully, trying not to disturb the sleep of the dying trees, and caught glimpse of himself in the cold glass of his window. A sallow face, tired and worn, wrapped in thick layers of cloth, stared back at him with wide eyes.

He looked close to death, poor thing.

Russia blinked. There was no more window, just a perfect square cut into his house with shards of glass still hanging feebly from the sides. Rubbing his dully throbbing fist, he turned away from the gaping hole (that he'd have to explain to his boss later) and looked down upon the sick trees. Somehow an axe had found its way into his hand, and he was already hacking away at the flimsy sticks of wood before he could wonder when he'd picked up the axe.

_They were dying. They were dying when I tried so hard to take care of them. They disobeyed me, and bad children must be punished._

The trees fell under his loving brutality before he was completely satisfied. Breathing heavily, not from the physical exertion, he dropped the axe and listened as it hit the ground with a crunch. He'd clean up the strewn heap of wood shards later, maybe never, he decided and headed for his house slowly. One hand on the doorknob andpushing it open, his other hand went up to wipe a tired hand over a sunken face. Russia's pale hand glistened with wetness when he pulled it away, and he knew he hadn't sweat.

Could anyone call him out for his tears?

Everything he'd poured his effort and time into . . . it all withered away. He was cursed like Midas, except that his touch brought only death and no gold to take the sting off his pain. Maybe the cold weather had infected him to his very bones. No one liked the cold, especially not his plants.

But, just because he was cursed with the touch of death, didn't mean he didn't know_ how_ to garden. There was room for more knowledge, since it wouldn't have hurt if he had known _not_ to drown his flowers in water when the sun refused to shine, or not to put tropical plants in the oven at an attempt of a replication of their natural habitat. But there was something that was just pure common sense. It helped him grow his most beautiful and only flower.

Expect a sunflower seed to produce sunflowers. Expect tomato seeds to grow tomatoes. Expect the seed of whichever to bloom into a plant of the very same whichever.

Simple, _da?_

It applied to everything, he had learned. He had also learned people weren't so different from lovely little potted plants.

So, if he planted a seed of evil . . .

"Ah, _Jao_," he hummed contently. Russia watched happily as the rest of his straining collection of flowers weredumped into the overfilled trash can by his own hand. A small daffodil stood weakly on top of the pile of its dead comrades. The sweet Russian dropped the lid of the can on its wrinkled petals without even a hesitation. _"__Цветок моей жизни . . ."_

. . . evil would grow from it. Naturally, of course.

And evil was just_ so beautiful._

_ . ~*~ . _

_Plant the seed . . . _

"You're so pretty, _Jao_."

The nation of China didn't look up. He didn't look _at_ anything as far as Russia could tell. Brown eyes were fixed on him, but they didn't _see_ anything, or else Russia had suddenly become the most boring person on Earth. But, China most certainly _looked_ terrible. And beautiful. That must have been quite a feat, to look so terrible yet so addictively stunning. It must take a fairly large deal of effort to look as such, which might have explained why the little man looked so terrible and tired in the first place.

Russia had an urge to touch, what must have been, the unattainable beauty, but he was afraid the fragile elegance would shatter under his clumsy hands. And he wanted to observe this exquisite loveliness a bit more before he watched the beauty that surely must be its shattering and fall. Just _a little_ longer . . .

But it didn't seem as if the weak empire would stay in its delicate state of beauty for much longer. Not from what Russia could gather from the way China's head fell wearily into the hands resting upon his desk. The other's long, ebony tresses, half freed from the ribbon tying it back, fanned over his still shoulders.

Yes, the fall of this nation would be beautiful, _so beautiful_, but Russia was beginning to believe that this weak state of grace was so much better. Perhaps he could have both, for his eyes only.

"_Jao_, I can help you. I can save you."

He was not graced with a glimpse of the sickly-pale complexion of China's face, or his shining, hollow eyes. He tried again.

"I do not like the European powers either, _Jao_. Become . . . a friend of Mother Russia, _da?_" It had been the first time Russia had made an offer of the like, and he was surprised how easily the words rolled off his tongue. He supposed 'friendship' would just be a step closer to becoming one with him, a step closer to keeping that heartbreaking beauty all to himself and letting the whole world know of his prize.

China did not spare him the attention he so desired. No small, unreadable pout or agitated tapping of fingers against the desk - just stagnated beauty.

"I promise _Jao_, I will not hurt you like everyone else has. Every friend of _Jao's_ shall be a friend of Russia's, and every enemy of _Jao's_ shall not escape unpunished. I cannot have my new friend hurt, _da?_"

From the way the Asian did not stir, Russia realized he was only repeating worn and beaten words to a nation who had seen everything, twice, and had been fooled and deceived upon each promise, twice. But Russia would not allow it to happen a third time.

Smiling a smile he wanted so badly for his beauty to see, he stood up from his chair and put his cold hands over _Jao's_. He was touching the splendor itself for not more than a split second before China recoiled, jumping out and back. His chair tumbled to the ground with an ear-splitting crash, and only China's heavy breathing was left to penetrate the silence.

There was a subdued fire in those chestnut eyes. Beautiful, yes. But what was even more beautiful was the brief flash of pain that passed over China's face like a cloud. Another upheaval, another protest, another hundred dead somewhere in the land which was known as China, it seemed. And what was more stunning still was that final look of surrendering acknowledgement before the small man produced a feather-light hand and dropped it into his larger, hearty hand with a dead weight and timeless poise. No guess, the proud nation had hoped for an honorable death, on his own feet after such a humiliating century at the hands of other powers. _Vainly_ hoped, that is.

China knew, Russia knew, that an honorable death upon the pride of a single man was an unaffordable luxury for a nation that could never make choices for his own welfare.

Yes, China's ruin was beautiful, but his rebirth would be dazzling.

_ . ~*~ . _

_. . . and watch it bloom._

June 4, 1989 - the day his flower would unfurl its fragile petals.

"What have I done?"

It came as a weak whisper, like a dying wind at the end of a storm. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to compare it to the warning sigh of a typhoon upcoming. Either way, Russia must silence the disturbance that dared disrupt the gentle flowering of his most loved flora.

_"Isn't it obvious?"_ he wanted to say, almost exasperatedly. _"You've just fired upon your own people. Is there anything to doubt?"_

But his lips were tightly controlled with an expectant smile. All his dutiful time would have been wasted if he disturbed the delicate peace his flower was suspended in. "Nothing but what was necessary," he assured the shaken nation gently. Hesitating, he added. "How do you feel?"

Now it was time to test his little flower. Would it be a lasting blossom, or would it waver and turn itself away from the sun? Could this flower survive the incessant cold of its harsh world?

China, surprisingly, was not weeping for his dead citizens, dead _children_. He was almost disturbingly calm as he allowed Russia to comfort him. But his haunted eyes spoke of another tale, one of grief and bloodied civil hands. The look dazzled Russia, who had never seen such a perfect reflection of himself in any mirror or picture. It was then he realized his flower wasn't quite as stunning as he'd been hoping for.

"I feel sick and disgusted," China spat with the passion of a mother mourning for her dead child, "and so much more. I can't even _look_ at my own reflection without wanting to hurt the image I see. I've never seen such an ugly image in the mirror since I've invented them."

And just when Russia believed that his flower was gone, and his loving efforts were in vain, China sighed deeply and, most importantly, resolutely.

"But . . . it felt good. _I_ feel good, to have silenced those who dared disrupt the unity of my people. It felt _good_ to kill them."

China didn't speak after his raspy voice trailed off, but Russia didn't need to hear any more.

Because, after years of pale and stiff death, a flower had bloomed. His most precious flower, supported by his own hands, had blossomed so strongly. He was nearly delirious with ecstasy.

Evil had never looked so tragically _gorgeous_.

"They did not understand your dreams, your wishes for peace," Russia encouraged ardently, his lavender eyes shining with tears that China would never notice. "They wanted it ruin your dream, and you did only what your people needed. You silenced those rebels and now there will be peace again. Everything will be right, _мой цветок."_

And then, he kissed his beautiful blossom - tenderly, out of habit like every other action he'd reserved for China - knowing he would not shrink away from the cold on his lips.

_Finally._

* * *

_- a/n -  
Holy Roman Empire - what have I done? I had to wear a gas mask to write for this pairing, but how could I ever turn down a gorgeous plot bunny like this one?! Gah, I solemnly swear never to touch this pairing AGAIN. Now just don't mind me, I'm going to go commit seppuku in that corner over there . . . _

**_Oh! And go vote on my poll? :3 Pretty please?_**


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